Dead Ringer
by MistressOfSmite
Summary: So while "our" Castle was in the Alternate Universe, where was the "other" Castle? A 4-chapter story set in the "Time of Our Lives" AU, taking place after the events of that episode. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

_**Based on the premise that while "our" Castle was in the Alternate Universe, the "other" Castle had to be somewhere, and when he gets back from there—boy, is he in for a few surprises.**_

"You sure you don't want me to drop you at your place?" Damien asked. "It's no trouble."

"No, here is great," Castle said. "I want to get a coffee, fortify myself for the evening ahead. It's going to be a long one."

Damien chuckled, then his expression turned serious. "As long as you're sure. I mean, are you feeling all right?"

Castle was touched by Damien's concern. It had been a long time since anyone was much concerned for his well-being. "I'm great. It was probably just low blood sugar or something."

Damien miraculously found a parking spot near the coffeehouse and pulled over. "Well, tell your mom I said hello and to break a leg."

Castle got out of the car; he grabbed his overnight bag with one hand and with the other reached out to shake Damien's hand. "Thanks for everything."

"You're welcome. And don't be a stranger."

Castle waved goodbye as his old school friend's car disappeared into the traffic. Sighing, he turned and headed into the coffeehouse. As he waited to place his order he shifted the overnight bag from one hand to the other. It wasn't heavy—far from it, for all he'd packed was a couple changes of clothes, his toothbrush and comb, and a marbled-cover composition book. He hadn't even brought his laptop. He could tell himself that he just hadn't wanted to bring the extra weight, or that he'd just wanted to be off the grid, but the truth is that he hadn't wanted to jinx things. He'd come to hate his laptop these last few years. Sometimes he wasn't sure which was worse: the cursor blinking on a blank screen, or the screen filled with prose that was utter garbage.

But now he had a composition book half full—or a third full, anyway—of ideas and brainstorms. He had no clue if any of them would pan out to much, but at this point beggars couldn't be choosers. Castle wasn't sure what had brought on this burst of writing energy. Maybe it was being in the Hamptons again. He hadn't been in years, not since he sold his house. (_Be honest,_ he chided himself, _you_ had to_ sell the house._) Or maybe it was Damien's influence. After all, Damien had been one of the first people to believe in his writing, and when they met by chance a few days ago, Damien was gracious enough not to bring up the failure of Castle's literary career, and his invitation out to the Hamptons had seemed to come from the genuine warmth of friendship rather than pity.

Castle, for his part, had had an excellent time. He'd spent hours sitting out on the balcony overlooking the beach, writing down notes for stories and characters with an energy he hadn't felt since the last Derrick Storm novel. When he wasn't occupied with his writing and Damien wasn't glued to his phone or computer, the two of them talked about old times and safe things.

They hadn't planned to come back until late afternoon. Castle was dreading opening night. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy seeing his mother on stage. He'd learned to accept, mostly, the fact that her current success had been achieved in no small part because of his own failure. He could have let it go, except that at every play or party he got dragged to, someone would come up to him and ask if he was writing, why he wasn't writing, how did it feel to not be a writer any more, and so on. Which was why he was ordering the largest cappuccino he could, with an extra shot, please. He needed _something_ to make tonight tolerable, and though he would have preferred scotch, he'd learned the hard way that was a bad idea.

He would have liked to come home as late as possible, the less time to deal with his mother's opening night histrionics the better. But something had happened this morning. He'd been standing in the guest bedroom, debating whether to take a stroll on the beach. Out of nowhere, it had come over him: a sensation as if something had hit him, hard, in the chest. His head swam and his pulse raced, yet there was no telltale pain or pressure from a heart attack. The world went gray for a moment, and when it returned he was lying on the floor, gazing up at the ceiling and feeling horribly weak, as if all the blood had drained out of him. _What the hell was that, _he wondered, and at the same time Damien's worried-sounding voice came from the other side of the door: "You OK, Rick? It sounded like you fell down."

He'd said he was fine, and after a moment, he was. He'd told himself he was fine, and he mostly believed it. But every so often—like now, while he waited for his order—he considered what it might have been. A problem with his heart, most likely. Or with his luck, something even worse, like a brain tumor. That was depressingly likely, for as he'd been lying there he'd caught a phantom scent. A pleasant scent, something fresh and almost fruity, yet subtle, too. Cherries, perhaps? Impossible for it to have come from anywhere in the guest bedroom. Weren't people with brain tumors prone to olfactory hallucinations? He was sure he'd read that somewhere.

Well, that was a problem for tomorrow. Today's mission was to get to the loft and slip in as unobtrusively as possible. With any luck his mother and Alexis would be busy and he could hide out in his office, avoiding the drama of the former and the indifference of the latter. It would be just him and his cappuccino and the composition book, and it was possible—just possible—that the ideas and notes in the book might actually amount to something.

If they didn't, well, he was no worse off than he had been.

With coffee in one hand and his overnight bag in the other, Castle briskly walked the few blocks to the loft. When he exited the elevator he retrieved his key and with the ease of long practice silently unlocked the door. He pushed the door open carefully, as stealthily as if he was a teenager sneaking in long past curfew. There. He closed the door and turned toward his office.

The sound that came from the living room froze him in place. It was a low, keening sound of pain that he'd heard a bare handful of times in his life, yet instantly recognized. The sound of his mother weeping. Not some theatrical facsimile of sorrow but the real thing. Castle whirled around and saw his mother sitting on the sofa, crumpled forward with her face buried in her hands. There was another woman there, one he didn't recognize and barely glanced at, because all he could see was the way his mother's whole body shook as a wave of grief seemed to hit her.

He wanted to call out to her, move to her, but horror had left him dumb and statue-still. _Alexis. Something's happened to Alexis. She's gone, and we never got to fix things between us._ He watched as the other woman put her hand on his mother's shoulder in the age-old gesture of comfort; he saw the woman's lips move and couldn't hear her words for the tumult in his head, but felt sure they were some variation on _I'm so sorry for your loss._

He tried to speak, to say something profound and original like _No, please no._ All the sensation seemed to have left his body; the coffee and the overnight bag fell from his numb hands and landed on the floor, the coffee spraying in every direction. At the sound, the women looked up at him.

"Richard!" In the next instant, it seemed, his mother had flown across the room and captured him in an embrace so tight it squeezed the breath from him and made his ribs creak.

With what little air had not been squeezed out of his lungs, he managed to gasp out, "Mother, what—"

"Oh Richard darling, I'm so glad you're all right. What a horrible mix-up must have happened but you're fine. You're fine." She looked up at him and cupped his face with her hands.

Castle had never felt so bewildered in his life. Yes, he'd gone to the Hamptons without telling her, but… "Alexis," he said. "Where's Alexis, is she—"

"She's off with some old school friends, I'm so glad she wasn't here for this…this…" His mother's look of relief cracked and she embraced him again.

Desperate for an answer, any answer at all, Castle looked over the top of his mother's head at the other woman, who was no longer sitting on the couch but standing over by the fireplace.

She was a striking woman—scratch that, she was beautiful—tall, with hair like chocolate and honey. Her face was beautiful as well, but what he noticed now was the expression she wore. He saw disbelief, and relief, and a bewilderment that seemed a mirror of his own.

Their eyes met, and he gave her a quizzical look in the hope that she could explain things.

Apparently, this was not what she wanted to see.

Her face darkened in a scowl that was rather frightening, and if his mother had let him go he would have taken a good step backward if not actually fled the apartment. The woman stalked over toward him. "Mr. Castle," she said in a voice that was low and not loud, but vibrating with emotion—mostly anger, it seemed. "Mr. Castle, I don't know what game you're playing at, but I want to see you at the NYPD Twelfth Precinct in an hour, and if you don't have a good explanation for all this I will hit you with every charge I can make stick."

Turning to his mother, the woman said, "Ms. Rodgers, I am so very sorry for this misunderstanding."

"It's quite all right," his mother said. "I promise you we'll get this sorted out. Won't we, Richard?"

The woman didn't seem interested in Castle's reply, and in any event he had no idea what to say. She turned and left the apartment without another word.

Castle's mother had finally released him and seemed to be returning to her old self. "You can hardly blame Captain Beckett for being angry with you, darling. You've made quite a nuisance of yourself these last couple days, and then this morning…"

Castle stared from his mother to the door and back again. "Mother," he finally managed, "what in the _hell_ is going on?"

_**In the next installment: A visit to the Twelfth for incredibly awkward conversations and a lesson in why you should always hang on to your receipts (because you never know when you'll need to prove your whereabouts).**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Captain Beckett has demanded that Castle come to the precinct and explain what's been going on. But first…eavesdropping!**_

He arrived at the Twelfth Precinct with barely fifteen minutes to spare. It had taken him a good half hour to get the whole story out of his mother and make it over here, and another ten minutes to figure out which floor he needed to be on and where the hell the Homicide Division was. He had only the vaguest recollection of coming here six years ago and talking with Detective…McMurtry? McMurphy? McSomething.

The tall cop who introduced himself as L. T. told him to have a seat while he waited for the Captain. Castle spotted a men's room and ducked in; he took a look in the mirror and didn't like what he saw. He was sweaty and his hair was a mess, and there was a starey look in his eyes. It couldn't be helped, he supposed. Coming home from a few days away to find out that someone's been impersonating you and that your mother thinks you've been shot and killed would put a damper on anyone's day.

He splashed water on his face and dried it with a paper towel; he was combing his hair with his fingers when he heard the restroom's outside door open, and heard his name as well.

"…that Castle dude is back…"

With a quick leap into the nearest open stall, he closed its door and put his eye to the crack between the door and the stall just in time to see two detectives walk in. One was short and blue-eyed, and wore an extremely ugly tie. The other was taller, Hispanic, and slightly grouchy-looking.

"That's good," said Ugly Tie. "I wanted to ask if he could get me another box seat. I took his advice and called Jenny. I was hoping I could take her to see _Mame_ soon."

"You can have mine. I'm not into Broadway. Besides, there's something I don't like about that guy," replied Slightly Grouchy.

"What do you mean?" asked Ugly Tie.

_Yeah, what do you mean?_ Castle wondered.

"All that stuff he knew about us, and the things he said about the Captain?"

_What stuff? What things?_

Slightly Grouchy continued: "She's been acting funny ever since he showed up. This morning she went to the coal plant, said something had come up with the case he was helping us on. And after she got back, Karpowski said she saw the Captain crying in the bathroom."

_Oh no._

Ugly Tie seemed taken aback. "Seriously?"

"Well, it wasn't full-on boo-hoo crying, but still, that's what Karpowski said. And then not long after that, the Captain blows off a meeting with 1PP to go somewhere, and now she's back and she's pissed, and the Castle guy is back too. You can't tell me that's a coincidence."

"McNulty—"

_That's the name!_

"—said he was an OK guy. Bit of a douche, but not bad. I got one of his books on Kindle last night. It's pretty good so far. I'm gonna stay away from his last one, though. 1.4 stars on Amazon."

Slightly Grouchy burst out laughing. "That is terrible!"

_You think that's bad? It was 1.3 stars last week._

"There's still something hinky about this whole thing," Slightly Grouchy said. "But I guess all writers are weirdos. They sit around thinking up all the crazy shit we see on the job every day, and they get paid for it."

"Nice work if you can get it," said Ugly Tie. "Say, I know we're supposed to canvass those witnesses, but do you think we should hang around in case the Captain needs us?"

"For writer boy?" Slightly Grouchy rolled his eyes. "Seriously, bro. The mood she's in now, she'll kick his ass six ways to Sunday if he looks at her cross-eyed. I say we get out of here while we can. L. T. will give us the lowdown on any fireworks."

He waited in the Captain's office, where he'd been escorted as soon as he'd emerged from the bathroom. Mercifully, there'd been no sign of Ugly Tie and Slightly Grouchy. (Had the impersonator really promised box seats? If so, he clearly hadn't done his homework. No way would his mother let him give away box seats. He could almost hear her: _Certainly not, darling. You'd just waste them on some floozy with no appreciation for the theater._)

Castle looked around the Captain's office, hoping for some clues to her character. There was only one picture—a framed one of a couple who were probably her parents. There were no signs of a husband or even a boyfriend, and no signs of children either. Not even a picture with a group of girl friends. _Someone with very few attachments. _There wasn't a picture of the Captain herself in her dress blues or shaking hands with the mayor, and there weren't any framed newspaper clippings of her exploits. _Someone who's conflicted about her career._ He was glad to see some personality in the room, mostly from the glass elephants marching across the desk, and the vase of fresh flowers over by the window. But what he mostly felt in this room was seriousness and dedication.

It was not the room of someone you wanted to be angry at you.

On the other hand, it was the room of someone who could get you answers. Because she wasn't the only one who wanted those.

Right on time, she entered the office and sat down. She regarded him with an expression he couldn't quite put a name to, because it seemed composed of many different emotions. Like her eyes, which shifted from green to brown to hazel and back to green again, her face shifted from anger to relief to simple curiosity. "Mr. Castle," she said. "I hope you have a good explanation for what's been going on the past few days."

He took a breath and jumped in. "I'll do my best, but I haven't even been in the city since Monday morning. I was at a newsstand not far from my loft, where I ran into Damien Westlake. We went to college together. We hadn't seen each other in a long time, and we talked for a while. He has a place in the Hamptons—I can give you his address and phone number—and said he was heading there for a few days and would I like to come along. So I went back to the loft, got a few things, and he drove us out there. We came back this morning."

Seeking skepticism in her eyes, he took out his cell and his wallet. "Damien did most of the buying, but I have a receipt for when we went out for drinks Tuesday night. Here, at the Bowman Tavern." He put the receipt in front of her, along with the one from Hanning's Homebrewed Coffee. "And here. I got a cappuccino just before I got back home." The cappuccino he'd dropped when he'd heard his mother sobbing.

While the Captain regarded the receipts, he opened up his bank's app on his phone, showing these charges and the Hamptons ATM he'd used for a withdrawal. "I haven't been here, Captain. And whoever you saw here or whoever has been pretending to be me…I don't know who that is, but it wasn't me."

"How come you didn't tell your family that you'd gone out of town?" Her voice still held an edge of suspicion.

Castle shrugged. How was he to say that he hadn't thought it necessary? His mother would have been getting ready for opening night, and Alexis would have been busy with her phone and her friends. "I knew I'd be back today. I was actually hoping for some peace and quiet. I was trying to get some writing done. Brainstorming, at least." That was the real reason he hadn't told them. He'd have spent the whole time dreading their pitying looks — or worse, their complete lack of surprise — if it came to naught, which it most likely would. "That's why I kept the receipts. If anything came of it, I could write those off."

"Did anything come of it?" she asked. Her voice seemed to have softened.

"I, uh, don't really know," he replied, mildly surprised by the question. She probably wanted it as proof that he'd been doing what he said he'd been doing, but her tone was one of genuine interest. "I was hoping to look it over today, but…" He shrugged again.

The Captain regarded him for a moment and then steepled her fingers, looking at him keenly. "Here's what I don't understand, Mr. Castle. You leave town with a friend you haven't seen in a long time, take off without telling anyone of your whereabouts…"

"Which I have receipts and bank charges to back up, as well as people at the tavern and the coffeehouse and other places that can tell you I was there…"

"Which doesn't explain how someone claiming to be you, looking exactly like you, and who acted enough like you to fool your mother and your daughter…"

"And that's the part that I think you should be worried about. Someone went to a lot of trouble to impersonate me and insinuate himself into my life and my family."

"And why would someone do that, Mr. Castle?"

"I have no fucking clue." He hadn't realized until now that he was angry. He didn't mind. Anger felt a lot better than bewilderment. "My life isn't exactly something a person would be envious of. A few years back, sure. But now? Come on. I'm a has-been. Maybe he wanted to pull a scam on my mother. Maybe he was after my daughter." He wished he hadn't said that; the thought chilled him. But it made sense. Alexis hadn't been out to New York in months — why would the impersonator choose the exact days she was at the loft?

"Look," he said, trying to sound calm and reasonable. "I'm worried for my family. I haven't done well by them, but I love them and…I'll be honest. They're all I've got. And I don't care if you believe me, but at least make sure they're not in any danger."

Captain Beckett said nothing for a moment. She reached over to the side of her desk and picked up a file folder. After looking down at the folder, she looked back up at him. There was a hesitancy in her look that he found disconcerting.

She held up the file at such an angle that he could see nothing of its contents, and opened it; she looked through some pages, and then extracted a photo and pushed it across the desk to him. "Do you recognize this object?" she asked.

Castle looked over the photo. It was of a metallic medallion, either gold or brass, with markings that looked vaguely South American or Polynesian. "No, I've never seen it. I'm sorry, but what has this to do with…"

"You were…I mean, the person claiming to be you was helping us on a case regarding this object. He was very persistent and…helpful. In his way."

There was a catch in her voice when she said this, and he remembered what he'd overheard in the restroom about the Captain crying. Was it over the impersonator?

Before he could consider the matter further, she continued: "Whatever this man's motives and state of mind were, I don't think he had any bad intentions toward your family."

He supposed that was reassuring. But the fellow was dead, which meant all his reasons and motives were unknowable. Or were they? "Is there any way I could see him? The body, I mean?"

She was putting the picture of the medallion back into the file, and nearly dropped it. "I'm sorry?"

"Could I see it…him?" At least he hadn't said _me_. "I could tell you if this is someone I recognize, someone who would have known me well enough to impersonate me so well."

"I don't think…"

He overrode her. "I could tell you right away about any distinguishing marks he has that I don't. And vice versa. I could see if he's got the scar I've got on my knee, if he's got the tattoo—"

"You have a tattoo?"

It was unbelievable, but he could have sworn he saw a ghost of a smile hovering around her mouth and in her eyes. Good Lord, was she flirting with him? Not that he wasn't flattered, if she was, but still. "On my right…I mean, if I had… Look, this person assumed my identity for reasons unknown. I'd like to see him and at the very least be assured that I'm not crazy, and that I haven't been in two places at once without knowing it or had my memories altered."

Her smile was a little more definite now. "I don't think we have to worry about those last couple scenarios."

"You're right, they sound like something out of my last couple Derrick Storm books. So, would it be possible?"

She hesitated, and he sensed something more at work besides nuisance and protocol. _He wasn't just someone helping out on a case. He was more, and she's upset over his death._ Castle was about to take back his request when she said, "I think that would actually be best. Help both of us settle some questions. If you have time I'll take you there now." She stood up, tucked the file under one arm, and started gathering her things. "Let's go, so you can make it back home in time for your mother's play."

Her mood changed when they were in her car, on the way to the morgue. Out of his peripheral vision, Castle noticed how she'd look at him searchingly whenever they were stuck in traffic or stopped at a red light. Was she comparing him to the person whose corpse they were going to look at? Was she looking for similarities or differences?

Now that they were actually on the way there, he understood what a bizarre thing it was that they were doing. He also realized that he knew almost nothing of why the impersonator was dead. "Can you tell me…how did it happen?"

Captain Beckett sighed. "The people who stole the medallion abducted him. They took him to their base, in an abandoned coal plant. I arrived, and there was a shoot-out. One of them shot him. He died at the scene."

Castle felt a shiver run through his body. _A goose just walked over my grave. Hell, a whole flock of them. _"When?"

"This morning."

He felt his core temperature drop a couple degrees. This morning. That weird spell of dizziness and gray-out. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe he should just forget the whole thing, never bring it up again, and let the NYPD deal with it. Maybe—

"We're here," she said.

_**In the next installment: A trip to the morgue (the story is called Dead Ringer after all), an obscure reference to Nathan Fillion's filmography, and dueling medical examiners.**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Captain Beckett and Castle are at the morgue.**_

Usually he made jokes when he was nervous; sarcasm was his armor, puns were his sword, and self-deprecation was his shield. But his wit seemed to have deserted him and he walked in silence beside the equally silent Captain Beckett as she made her way along the halls with the ease of familiarity.

They stopped in a hallway that ended in double doors, over which a sign said _Morgue_, and another said _Authorized Personnel Only_. There were a few chairs lining the hallway, the standard uncomfortable wood-and-vinyl ones found in waiting rooms.

"They know we're coming," murmured Captain Beckett. "I'll just — oh, wait."

The double doors flew open and a woman in scrubs came through the doorway. She was a good eight months pregnant and wore a slightly frantic look. The nametag on her scrubs said _Parish_. "Did you get my message? We have a — holy God!"

Castle realized that Parish was staring at him. Not in a good way. Not in an _I-just-met-my-favorite-author_ way.

In an _I've-just-seen-a-ghost_ way.

"How on earth…" Parish began.

"It's a long story," replied Captain Beckett. "We need to see…" She trailed off meaningfully.

"That's the problem," replied Parish, her eyes darting from Castle to the Captain and back again. "Come in here and I'll explain…as much as I can."

"Sit," barked the Captain, seemingly jolted by crisis into brusque command. He obeyed without hesitation, sitting down in one of the uncomfortable vinyl seats. "Wait here," she said, and set her things down on the chair next to him. "Don't go anywhere."

Before he could reply, she followed Parish past the double doors and into the morgue. Castle sat, straining to catch any conversation between Parish and the Captain, but though it was eerily quiet in the hallway—_dead quiet, ha ha! _his mind offered—the double doors muffled sound and he could only make out a word here and there. He caught _explain_ and _impossible_. A third voice, a man's, joined in the conversation and contributed _big problem._

Castle leaned closer to the doors, trying to hear more, and as he did he glanced down at the Captain's things, which she'd set down so hurriedly. Her briefcase, her coat, and the file she'd brought with her. And what do you know—the file had his name on it.

How interesting.

He glanced around, feeling like a kid who'd lingered after school and found the secret drawer where the teacher kept all the tests and other confidential papers. No one was around; he was alone. Castle reached out and picked up the file—the one she'd been so keen to not let him see, back at the precinct. What was to stop him from looking at it now? Other than the fact that it contained a record of his own drunken stupidity: the police horse and the hot-air balloon and so on. Surely he had a right to look at his own NYPD file, and if he didn't have the right…well, he'd never been big on resisting temptation.

The top page was a cover sheet, seeming to show who had checked the file out of records and when. He flipped that sheet back to find not more paperwork, but photos. Crime scene photos.

He stared numbly down at the photos. He saw nothing but them, and heard nothing but his own racing heart and rapid breathing. He'd have to tell the Captain that they'd come here for nothing. These photos were enough. Because it wasn't an impersonator or a look-alike.

It was himself.

He didn't have to see the whole thing stretched out on a slab, not when he could see his face with the laugh lines in their right places, with the scar on his forehead (fifth grade, baseball bat) present and accounted for. The same face he saw looking back out of the mirror every day, except that this face was never going to look back at anything, ever again. He didn't need to see the two gunshot wounds in the chest to know that, although now he couldn't stop staring at those wounds. He could tell himself that whoever was in the photo was playing possum, but that was impossible. He'd seen photos of the dead before—there was an inertness about them that came through even in photography—and that was what he was seeing now.

Himself.

But it wasn't him. Or was it? It couldn't be, not when he could feel himself sitting here, holding the file in sweaty hands, not when he could feel his heart pounding. Not while he was breathing, although he didn't seem to be getting enough air in and tried to breathe deeper, faster, but that wasn't working. The world was getting swimmy, he felt like he was drowning, and like a drowning man he reached out for a lifeline…

…And found it, as a hand took hold of his.

X

He'd written about the old standby remedy for hyperventilation—breathing into a brown paper bag—once or twice in his books, but had never had to try it out for himself. Castle was relieved to find that it worked, and quite well at that.

He held the bag over his mouth and nose with one hand, and with the other held on to Captain Beckett's hand. The medical examiner, Parish, had been joined by another M.E., a balding, beady-eyed man apparently named Perlmutter. The women were looking at Castle with concern, while the man regarded him with bemused interest, as if Castle was an unusual test result that had just shown up under a microscope.

"Are you feeling better?" asked Parish.

Castle set down the paper bag, tried an experimental breath or two. "I think so. I'd know for sure, if this bag didn't smell like egg salad."

"Hey, that's my lunch!" said Perlmutter indignantly.

"He's feeling better," said Captain Beckett, not unkindly. "Are you up for conversation? We need to talk."

Castle nodded. "Those pictures were enough. I don't need to see…" _It? Him? Me?_

The others all exchanged looks. "We've got a bit of a situation, Mr. Castle," the Captain said. "You see, the body has…" She took her hand out of his and folded both hands on her knees. "It's vanished."

And he'd thought this day could not get any stranger. "Vanished? You mean like…poof? Disappeared?"

Perlmutter rolled his eyes.

"The only explanation is that someone managed to steal it," said the Captain.

"And I'm telling you, that's not possible," said Parish. "Since it was brought in this morning, neither of us have left this area, and no one's brought in or taken anything out."

"Could it have been put in the wrong, I don't know, drawer?" Castle was acutely aware that his knowledge of morgues was limited to some research he'd done for his first couple books.

"Believe me, that's the first thing I checked," said Parish.

"Well, he didn't just get up and walk out," replied Perlmutter. "Or did he? You don't have two GSWs in you, do you?"

The photos appeared in Castle's mind again with brutal clarity, and he stood up shakily. "Is there a…oh, good. Excuse me a moment." He made his way to the restroom as quickly as he could; behind him he heard Parish hiss, "How could you _say_ that?" to which Perlmutter replied, "I was just asking, sheesh."

He leaned against the wall of one of the stalls as his stomach reeled. He felt sure he was going to be sick, but after a few moments the feeling passed. Just as well—he hadn't eaten a thing since breakfast and didn't have anything to throw up. Castle exited the stall and went to the sink, where he washed his hands, looking into the mirror all the while. His face, alive and well. So how did he—the other Castle—end up in those photos?

When he returned to the hall, only Captain Beckett was there. She was on the phone, but was just finishing up her conversation when he arrived. "We'll be right there. And thanks," she said into the phone. She looked at him keenly with those remarkable chameleon eyes, which were now the color of forest moss. "Security has footage we can look at. There's no way a person could get past the cameras without being seen. I told them we'll be there in a minute."

He took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh. "Let's do this."

"Are you feeling up to it?" she asked.

He didn't meet her eyes, knowing that he had only himself to blame for looking. "I shouldn't have peeked in that file," he said as they began walking to Security.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left it there with you," she said.

"You couldn't have known I'd look."

"I knew that _he _would have looked. I should have known…" She shook her head. "This is all so strange."

"Very," he agreed.

When they reached the Security office, as she put her hand on the knob, he said, "Captain Beckett? Why are you doing this for me?" Lord knew she had better things to spend her time on. If what he'd overheard earlier today was true, she'd blown off a major meeting just to break the news to his mother.

She looked at him for a long moment. "Let's see what the security footage shows."

It wasn't an answer, but he thought it was. _She isn't doing this for me. It's for him._

Parish was waiting for them when they went into the Security office. "Sorry for not waiting," she said, and patted her belly. "These days all my patience goes toward my passenger here."

"As it should," said Castle.

"I've got everything ready to go," said the security guard. "We've got views of the entryway, the hall to the service elevator, the drawer room, and the break room. No one could enter or leave without passing one of these cameras."

They sat around a single monitor whose view was split into four quadrants. In the interest of time the security guard put the images on fast forward, but even then it was clear that there was nothing to see but Parish and Perlmutter doing paperwork, running tests, making phone calls. In the break room, a TV showed a 24-hour news channel. Nothing unusual.

There was a moment when, all at the same time, the fluorescent lights flickered, computer monitors winked off and back on, and the 24-hour news was replaced by the white noise of an empty channel. "What was that?" asked Captain Beckett.

"Power surge, most likely," said the guard.

"How come it didn't affect the security cameras? Are they on a separate power grid?" asked Castle. He could have sworn he saw the Captain wearing a faint look of approval at his question.

The guard nodded. "Yep, separate grid. That way all eyes don't go blind at once. Not that it would have mattered. That surge only lasted two seconds, tops. Not enough to affect anything."

They saw nothing else unusual until the very end. Parish walked into the drawer room. She seemed to sigh and square her shoulders, then she pulled open a drawer. It was clear that she was expecting the resistance of weight; she staggered a bit when the empty drawer opened easily. "And that's it," Parish said now. "That's when I called you, but you were already in the building."

"But that's not possible," Captain Beckett said. "Can you give me a copy of this? I want to run it by our tech people and see what we missed. There has to be something."

She turned to leave, but Castle hung back. There had to be something...wait. "Can you back it up to the power surge, whatever it was?"

"Sure thing."

Castle couldn't see anything they hadn't seen before, but what he wanted was the time stamp. He made a note of it in his phone. "Thanks."

As he and the Captain left the Security office, while she was on the phone asking for a sweep of the morgue drawer and the bag the body had been transported in for any trace of DNA, Castle checked the time stamp against his own memories, and then against the coffeehouse receipt. The glitch had happened just twenty minutes after he'd bought the coffee. That meant, given the time it had taken him to get his order and walk home, it was right about the time he'd arrived at his building. Maybe even the moment he walked into the loft.

_When I left home, he arrived. And when I came back, he left._

X

There was a coffee cart on the sidewalk by the parking lot. He offered to buy her coffee and she accepted; he felt he owed her some sort of gesture, for she seemed to be more troubled than he was. Castle felt oddly calm now and no longer bewildered but…intrigued.

When they got into her car the Captain didn't start up the ignition at first. She took a small sip of her coffee, then a larger draught, as if it was Dutch courage. "He saved my life," she said, her voice so low it was scarcely audible. "Today, the reason he was shot was because he was protecting me. Took the bullets meant for me. I barely even knew him and he…" She shook her head. "Of all the things that have happened today, somehow that seems the most impossible."

He wondered what about it she found more unbelievable: that someone would so readily sacrifice himself, or that someone did it for her. "I used to have a quote taped up by my desk, back when I was writing my first book," he said. "It's from an episode of _The Twilight Zone_. 'Nothing's impossible. Some things are less likely than others, that's all.'"

"Do you believe that?" she asked.

"I did then. Any time I got scared because I didn't know what the hell I was doing, I looked at that quote."

"Do you still believe it?"

He hesitated a moment. "I thought I didn't. Now I'm not so sure." She regarded him with those ever-changing eyes—hazel now—and he wondered what she saw. "It's probably best I get home now. My mother's probably bouncing off the walls. I can get a cab, let you get back to the precinct."

"No, it's OK. I'll take you home. Another ten minutes won't matter."

"Thank you," he said, and meant it.

When she parked by his building, she said, "I'll keep you posted on what we find. And I can see about getting a car to do a drive-by if you're concerned about your family's safety."

"That won't be necessary," he said. If the other Castle was some version of him—if those things that the other Castle had babbled about parallel lives and other worlds were true—then his family was safe. If not, well, he doubted that a person who could save a life so readily had sinister motives. "But I want to thank you for coming to see my mother this morning. You could have given that duty to any cop at the precinct, but you didn't."

She looked away, almost shyly. "It's OK. I owed it to you."

"To the other me."

Captain Beckett shook her head. "Yes. But to you as well. I've read your books. All of them. I discovered them back when…well, it was a bad time. They helped. So much. Your characters, and all the details. But mostly just knowing that at least on the page, justice would be done. That's a lot harder to come by in the real world."

He watched her face as she spoke, and thought he could guess another reason why she'd broken the news to his mother. _She's been on the other end of that conversation._ He didn't want to leave the car; he wanted to stay and learn more about her. But he'd taken up enough of her time. He held out his hand to her. "I'm sorry for everything I've put you through today. Thank you, Captain."

She took his hand. "It's Kate. I think after all this, we're entitled to first names."

_Kate._ He liked the way it sounded. "Rick," he said in return.

The handshake lingered, as if they were both reluctant to let go. Knowledge that he might never see her again emboldened him, and before he could overthink it, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Just a moment to savor the feel of her skin, to breathe in the faint scent of cherries that clung to her. The smile she gave him in return was hesitant but heartfelt.

And then he went inside, and she drove away.

X

His mother had insisted that he stay home instead of coming to the play. She verbalized it as, "Darling, with the day you've had, you'd probably just fall asleep in your seat and make me look bad," but he knew better.

Castle was grateful to her; it was a relief to have the loft to himself, to be able to look out the window at the night and the city and to just think about this strange, strange day.

He'd gotten a call from Captain Beckett an hour ago. There had been no trace of any DNA in the morgue drawer or in the body bag. She apologized, and said she'd have a team check the scene where the shooting had happened to see if they could find any evidence there. Castle had thanked her, but hadn't said what he'd been thinking: they wouldn't find any evidence. He didn't know how it had happened or why, but he felt certain that any traces of the other Castle would never be found.

It was all so _interesting._

He hadn't told the Captain that he didn't mind if there were never any definitive answers. Castle guessed she wouldn't understand this mindset. After all, you don't get to be the youngest female NYPD captain with one of the highest case-closure rates (he'd looked her up when he got home) by being OK with a lack of answers.

It was different for writers, though.

He stood at the window, looking out at the city but not seeing it. He was focused on his mind's eye—the magic lantern show that had been more or less closed for business the last few years. But now he thought he could sense things going on behind the boarded-up doors. He could hear rusty machinery grinding back to life—slowly, with many halts and screeches, but grinding on regardless.

_Nothing's impossible. Some things are less likely than others, that's all._

Castle wasn't aware of walking from the window to his desk, but the next thing he knew, he was sitting in his chair. The notebook he'd used for brainstorming this past weekend was on the desk, but he tossed it off to the side and fired up his laptop, thinking of doppelgangers and doubles and a world where those were possible. Thinking of a character he could thrust into this world: someone to be the eye of the storm, someone the reader would want to follow along with. He laughed. That part at, at least, was going to be easy. Someone with smarts and drive, who was both fierce and compassionate; someone tall, with forest-jewel eyes and hair the color of chocolate and honey. Yes, this would be the easy part.

He might have been typing for ten minutes or ten hours, he wasn't sure. But the rap on his office door startled him back to the real world.

"Hey, Dad," Alexis said from the doorway.

"Hey, sweetie," he said. "You're home early."

"No, you're up late."

He glanced at the clock. Good Lord, it was nearly one in the morning. "How was the play?"

"Gram was on fire tonight. You would have loved it, but…" She came close, and a look of pure excitement came over her face. He hadn't seen that look from her in a long time. "You're writing!" She peered and looked at the word count. "Holy crap! You're _really_ writing. That's it, you're blowing off every play from now on."

They laughed, and for a moment it was just like it used to be. He readied himself to see her wall of indifference go back up, but she said, "I'm really glad we had that talk last night."

He managed to squash _What talk?_ before it got out of his mouth. "So am I."

"And I was thinking, instead of flying back tomorrow I could push it back a few days? Mom won't mind. We could spend some time together."

"I'd like nothing better." Truer words were never said.

"Maybe the museum?"

"I've heard they have a new dinosaur exhibit."

"Great." She leaned down and gave him a quick kiss on the top of his head, then headed up to her room. "Don't stay up too late," she called from the stairs.

"I won't." He didn't. He wrote a few more paragraphs—just enough to get to a good break in the action—and then shut the computer down and the lights off. He thought he'd be awake for a while, thinking over everything that had happened today, but he was deep asleep almost as soon as his head had hit the pillow.

_**In the fourth and final chapter, the POV will switch to Beckett. Thanks for all the follows, favorites, and reviews!**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**The fourth (and final!) chapter is from Beckett's point of view.**_

It was three months before she heard from him again.

On the surface, at least, life was back to normal. Beckett knew that Ryan and Esposito had questions about what had happened; these questions were not verbally asked, but came through in raised eyebrows, inquiring looks, and little favors designed to elicit confiding. She gave them nothing, and when their tactics got on her nerves, she funneled the most boring desk-duty jobs their way. That put a stop to things.

She only talked about it with Lanie, on a girls' night out, the two of them drinking daiquiris (Lanie's was virgin, Beckett's considerably not virgin). "I still don't get it," Lanie said as she leaned back on her bar stool and rested her daiquiri glass on the makeshift table her belly had become. "I checked the body in myself. I remember thinking I was going to put things off as long as I could because I used to read some of his books. No one stole it. And _all _the physical evidence of him vanished?" She shook her head. "I'm telling you, it's impossible."

Beckett meant to keep her next thought to herself, but the daiquiri loosed her tongue. "Maybe it's not impossible. Maybe it's just very unlikely."

Lanie nearly did a spit take and looked her friend up and down. "Who are you, and what have you done with Kate Beckett?"

The curse and blessing of police work was that, sooner or later, there was always a more complicated, gruesome, or just plain weird case to focus on. Not to mention that Ryan was deep in a revived romance with Jenny, and Lanie and Esposito were embroiled in a mama bear/baby daddy skirmish with the arrival of Lanie's child. Their minds were soon on other things.

As for Beckett, she couldn't forget about Richard Castle, and wasn't sure if she wanted to.

She found herself thinking of him at odd times. She found herself wondering how he was doing: whether the lack of answers about his mysterious double troubled him, or if he was content to let things be.

She kept an eye on the papers and local news for word of him, but though his mother's play was quite the smash and Martha Rodgers was often in the public eye, Beckett had seen no trace of her son.

She finally made it through his last book, the ill-advised foray into literary fiction. She thought of the book and of him when she sat through endless meetings or waded through paperwork; she wondered if he too had gotten sucked into the trap of doing what you _think_ you should do.

She thought of calling him. She wanted to call him. To find out how he was doing. To see if he was writing again. To get an answer to the question his double had never answered and that he hadn't been asked: why he'd killed off Derrick Storm.

But she waited, trying to find the right time to call, and only too late realized that the right time had probably gone. Now every reason she had for calling seemed awkward and forced.

Or so she told herself.

It was only on certain nights, when she was working late and all alone in the precinct, that she could accept the truth: she was afraid. Oh, not of him personally. Far from it. She liked him; was surprised at how much she liked him. It was the liking that frightened her, especially when combined with the two phrases she'd heard from him, the ones that came to her when she was too tired to push them out of her mind.

_Because I love you, Kate._

_Nothing's impossible._

The really bad nights were when she remembered those words and also remembered how it had felt when he'd kissed her hand. Sometimes she'd find herself reaching for the phone. She took to wearing a rubber band around her wrist and would snap it against her skin when she reached for the phone. It was a trick she'd read about in Dear Abby, to stop a bad habit. After a while, you were supposed to stop wanting to do whatever the bad habit was.

It didn't work very well.

X

One rainy day, she came into the precinct after an all-hands meeting with the Police Commissioner; the Republican party was going to hold its convention in NYC, and the favored front-runner for the presidential nomination was a New York state senator, William Bracken. Preparations for security and other matters were already underway, and every member of the NYPD was going to have to help shoulder the burden. Weeks of grinding work loomed ahead.

There were three voice mails waiting for her. One from the mayor. One from Senator Bracken's campaign manager (she could already tell that Bracken's people were going to be a thorn in her side). And one more.

"Hello." A pause, and then: "It's Rick Castle. I know it's been quite some time, and that you're probably very busy. But I wondered if you could possibly meet me for coffee some time? There's something I wanted to talk to you about and…a favor to ask of you, if it's not too much trouble." A lengthy pause, so lengthy that she thought the message was over, and then he said: "It would mean a lot to me. Thank you." The last phrase was said in a rush, and he sounded nervous.

She certainly didn't have time to meet. But she made time.

He was waiting for her when she arrived at Hanning's Homebrewed Coffee (he'd offered to meet her somewhere closer to the precinct, but she'd preferred being away from nosy detectives, especially ones named Ryan and Esposito). He looked a bit tired and pale, as if he'd had too many late nights and long hours inside, and he could definitely have used a haircut and a shave, but there was a bright look in his eyes. He had a messenger bag with him and kept fidgeting with its strap as though he was afraid to lose contact with it.

When they were seated with their coffees, he asked, "Did Dr. Parish have her baby?"

Beckett smiled. "Yes, a girl. Name's Zoe." She got out her phone and pulled up some of the many, many pictures she had of Zoe, and then handed the phone to Castle.

His face lit up. "Oh, what a cutie. She is going to be a heartbreaker when she gets older." He handed the phone back to Beckett. "Tell Dr. Parish congratulations. She's on a big adventure now."

"How's your daughter?" Beckett asked as she put her phone away.

"She's great. Working at a nonprofit and taking some classes now as well." His face became more serious. "In a way, what happened…that was the best thing, as far as she and I are concerned. We'd drifted apart, and we're putting things back together."

"I'm so glad to hear that."

"And how are you?" he asked.

"Busy," she said. "As always. And you?"

"Writing. For the first time in years."

She hadn't realized how afraid she'd been that things were going bad with him. She let out a sigh of relief disguised as a laugh. "That's wonderful! I can't wait to read it."

He looked rather sheepish at this. "Well, it's funny you should mention that. Because I was…the favor I mentioned in my voice mail? I was wondering if you would read it."

"Of course. When will it be out?"

"That's the thing," he said, looking nervous as hell. "I finished the first draft the night before I called you. I was hoping you could read it now."

To say she was taken aback would be an understatement. "I don't think I'd be the best person for that. I know enough grammar for a decent memo, but…"

"Oh, no. No. I didn't mean that way. It's just…I need to know if it's any good. I think it is…but I'm not sure. If it's not, then that's fine. The only people who even know I've been writing are my mother, my daughter…and you."

She felt flattered, and honored, and more than a bit trepidatious; she could see how important this was to him. "Why me?" She was no literary critic. "Because I liked your books?"

Castle shook his head. "Because of _why _you liked them."

Beckett bought herself time by taking a sip of her coffee. She thought back to those weeks and months after her mother's murder; of taking some mad money her aunt Theresa had sent her, going to the bookstore, and grabbing a pile of random titles based on what looked promising at the moment. Some were OK, some were garbage—but it was Castle's book that stayed with her. And whenever grief and anger brought her low, she would do the one thing that worked. She'd barricade herself in her room with one of his books and read until her eyes burned and her heart lightened.

"I'd be honored," she said.

His smile was so genuine and broad it was nearly beatific. He opened up the messenger bag and brought out a manuscript, secured together by rubber bands. The title sheet had only five words:

_Frost Warning_

_by Richard Castle._

"I know you're busy," he said. "And the last thing I want is for this to be a burden. Whenever you have time. All that matters is that you tell me if it's any good."

"I will."

X

It was late, well past eleven, when Beckett arrived home. She changed into pajamas, poured a glass of wine, and sat down on her sofa. Picking up the manuscript, she didn't undo the rubber bands right away but let her fingertips skim over the paper.

She wanted very badly for this book to be good. For his sake. And for hers. Right now she could use a good novel for escape.

The rubber bands came undone with a twang, and she lifted away the cover page. Underneath it was not the first page of the manuscript, as she'd expected, but a handwritten note.

_To Kate Beckett:_

_If you're seeing this note, it's because I chickened out and was unable to tell you something important about this book._

_Lack of inspiration is what kills writing. I know this all too well. The reason I killed off Derrick Storm was because he no longer inspired me. I no longer cared what happened to him. And the reason my literary novel was a failure was because it had no inspiration (unless you call pretending to be something I'm not an inspiration)._

_But I had that for this book; specifically, for the main character. I've based her on you. Or rather, what I thought I knew about you. It was the events of that day that got me thinking I could write again, but the long-term inspiration came largely from you. _

_I apologize if this makes you uncomfortable, or if I've overstepped my bounds. If you'd rather not read the book, now that you know this, then by all means just let me know and I'll not trouble you again._

_But I just wanted to thank you for making what I thought was impossible, possible again._

She read the note over several times. Part of her wanted to put the manuscript aside, but before she could stop herself, she turned to the first page of the story, hoping—no, knowing—that once she started, she wouldn't be able to stop.

_It was a Sunday afternoon. She would always remember that, later—it began on a Sunday afternoon, by common knowledge the most uneventful time of day and day of week. NYPD Captain Thalia Frost set down the flowers she'd brought to the cemetery, stood up, and looked out over the grass and graves. That was when she saw the dead man. Granted, the cemeteries were full of dead men, but this one was standing, and looking right at her, and waving hello._

"_Thalia," he said. "It's been a long time."_

The name rang a bell, somewhere. _Thalia. _Breaking the story's hold, Beckett quickly brought up Google on her phone. Of course. Thalia was one of the Muses from Greek myth.

She rolled her eyes, and smiled. The smile lingered, because while over the years she'd been many things—daughter, student, friend, lover, cop, captain—she'd never been a muse before.

She could learn to like it. And to like him. That was something to think about later, though. Right now, she had a book to read.

_**Thanks, everyone! I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.**_


End file.
